Clint Eastwok stopped dead in his tracks. His finely tuned acoustic sensors had heard something. It wasn't the natural, typical sounds that you would find in Dead Gopher Gulch: the throaty call of the cactus pecker, the eerie howl of desert coyotes searching for corpses of dead robots to lick the grease from their gears, or even the lonely, dusty wind turning the blades of creaking wind generators. This was different.
It was a mechanical, metallic, skipping sound. As if a Pogo stick was hitting the hard, dusty, lifeless desert floor and springing back up again. Eastwok's tracking program told the sheriff of Ratchet City that it was the one legged bounce of an actuated piston. The escaped criminal that he was searching for was near: the dastardly Peg-Leg Pete.
Pete had hidden a stick of dynamite in a secret compartment of his squeaky peg leg and had blown a hole the size of a grizzly bears fridge in his jail cell. Wily old Pete had waited until the sheriff had gone home for the night and the geriatric robot Deputy Jenkins had taken over. Now Jenkins was in the hospital with a broken servo and even less teeth than he had before and he already had none to spare.
Peg-Leg Pete would pay for what he had done. Justice would come to Dead Gopher Gulch and Pete's hours were numbered. That squeaky peg leg would soon be receiving some much needed rest. It would be mounted in a place of honor above the door to his office, along with the detached parts of all the other varmints that had dared to cross Sheriff Eastwok!